Why had I left my cat, the only thing in the world I cared about, to my horrible, self-centered sister?

My mouth opened and closed in panic and I squeezed my eyes shut again, trying to drown out everything but the feeling of air whooshing in and out of my lungs.

I couldn’t think about Mr. Bingley, or my sister, or the fact that I was wearing granny panties instead of something lacy and sexy. Because what type of underwear I had on really mattered in a situation like this. Here was clear proof that my priorities were in order. It was nice to know that even when facing my imminent demise, I could still hold onto my sarcasm. Some natural talents never let you down.

And right now my head was full of my threadbare, washed-so-many-times-the-white-had-turned-gray granny panties.

The last thing any twentysomething girl with an obsessive fixation on her own death wanted was for potential paramedics to get an eyeful of stretched elastic and tiny holes along the crotch.

That’s how Corin Thompson was going to be remembered. As the crazy girl with the disgusting undies. Why oh why hadn’t I worn my pretty pink bikini briefs with the bows at the hips?

My hands were shaking. My skin was coated in a fine sheen of sweat even though the temperature outside was barely above freezing.

“Are you all right?” a deep voice asked. Under normal circumstances I may have thought it was a nice voice. An appealing voice.

Not now.

Right now all I could do was focus on my imminent mortality.

This was it. The light is there, at the end of the tunnel. Should I go toward it?

I waved my hand in an agitated gesture. A clear nonverbal cue to leave me the fuck alone.

It’s all over. The light is getting brighter.

“Come on. Let’s get you to stand up.”

I felt hands underneath my armpits attempting to hoist me up and onto my feet. I squinted and realized that the bright light was actually the sun glinting off my unwanted rescuer’s stupid sunglasses.

“Leave me alone!” I yelled, followed by a low, keening moan.

“Just let me get you off the sidewalk,” the voice urged in a calm, placating manner.

“Don’t touch me!” I screeched, wrenching myself from the grasp that held me.

What part of Leave me alone was he having a hard time understanding? Had my speech started to slur? Was I losing motor control?

Shit!

“I can’t breathe,” I gasped, pulling at the scarf around my neck, trying to get it free. My fingers scratched and tore at the fabric. “I. Can’t. Breathe!” My words were broken gasps without substance.

“Here,” the deep voice said from somewhere in the void around me. Gentle hands touched my neck, slowly and gently releasing me from the confines of my scarf.

The frigid wind touched my skin and I felt better.

I shut my eyes and hunched in on myself, my fingers still curled into claws.

I tried to concentrate on anything other than where I was and what was happening.

Go to your sanctuary, Corin.

Where was my goddamned sanctuary?

“Just breathe. Slowly. In through the nose and out of the mouth,” the deep voice said from beside my ear.

I barely heard him because suddenly I remembered that perfect place in my mind that I could go to in times like this.

A beach. With crystal clear water. Waves lapping along the sand. I could almost hear the surf pounding in my ears.

There was the requisite shirtless hot guy feeding me chocolate and quoting Lord Byron while another muscle-bound pretty boy massaged my feet as I ogled his um…package.

Okay, so my sanctuary was overly self-indulgent and slightly on the pervy side.

I was a red-blooded twenty-five-year-old woman after all, dying aside.

Breathe. In through the nose and out of the mouth.

I nodded my head, noticing for the first time the feel of a hand rubbing slowly up and down my back.

Someone was touching me.

I felt my lungs finally able to take in air and I slowly, carefully blew it out again. My fingers began to tingle, once again getting the feeling back.

Soon I became aware of where I was and what I was doing. Slowly I began to brush off the snow from my knees. I straightened my scarf and pulled my hat down over my ears.

Run and hide, Corin. As fast as your skinny legs can carry you.

“There you go. Feeling better?” the deep voice asked, and I felt myself start to flush with mortification.

I couldn’t look at him. I knew that if I did, this moment of humiliation would haunt me in my dreams from here to eternity. As it was, that voice with just the right amount of husk would be etched into my brain until I keeled over. Which would be pretty soon at this rate.

“I’m fine. Thank you,” I mumbled, ever polite, just as my parents had taught me to be.

Even if I wanted to scream like a banshee and dash away, arms flailing.

I didn’t want to look at the crowd that had gathered during my freak-out. I didn’t want to see the shocked and sympathetic expressions on the faces of total strangers. Or worse I didn’t want to recognize the look of total disgust, which would undoubtedly be there. I bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood.

It was one thing to melt down in the privacy of your own home; it was something else entirely to have a large audience staring at you as you channeled your inner nut job.

“Do you need me to call someone? I can walk you home,” the deep voice offered and I shook my head and tucked my chin down into the safe warmth of my coat, attempting to hide the red burn of my cheeks.

“Are you sure?” His voice was gentle and concerned. He didn’t sound horrified or aghast. I felt a momentary relief in that.

I chanced a quick look before I made my escape.

My gaze hovered a moment on soft brown hair and kind blue eyes shining bright with his sympathy. And that’s all I could handle seeing.

I averted my gaze, unable to look at him. Wanting to ignore his kind voice and naked pity that was in many ways so much worse than disgust.

“I can help you home—”

I didn’t let him finish his offer. I couldn’t stand there, drowning in his compassion, for a moment longer.

I tucked my chin down into my coat and all but ran away from the pieces of my crumbling pride.

Chapter 1

Corin

“I’m leaving around three today,” I told Adam Johnson several weeks later.

Adam was my partner at the Razzle Dazzle pottery studio and my best friend by default, mostly because there was no one else to fill the position.

Though I’m pretty sure if he were given the option of being Corin Thompson’s bestie or…well…anything else, anything else would win every time.

“Oh yeah? Where are you headed?” he asked, opening a box of premade clay figurines and haphazardly lining them along the lowest shelf. I waited for him to finish and then quickly, while his back was turned, rearranged them so that they were neat and straight.

Razzle Dazzle was my pride and joy, and I may or may not be a bit over the top about wanting everything to be perfect. The studio catered mostly to the stay-at-home mom and preschool crowd. I enjoyed watching people create something that they loved. It gave me a sense of satisfaction knowing that my store was responsible for putting smiles on people’s faces.

And I also liked to fart rainbows on the weekends.

“I’m headed to a new group,” I said quietly so no one would overhear. If I were talking to my older sister, Tamsin, I could expect an exasperated huff followed by a lengthy lecture about yet another support group I was attending. She’d tell me, in her condescending way, that my illnesses were all in my head. That no, I didn’t have fibromyalgia. And that pain in my head was not a brain tumor. She had no patience for my health anxiety and even less patience for the persistent fears that had plagued me for years.